


a mockery of my horror

by sapphskies



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assisted Suicide, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Murder, Psychological Horror, Tragedy, cyberlinguilism, mild descriptions of drowning, rpgplaythrough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphskies/pseuds/sapphskies
Summary: 5 down, 2 to go.All for the greater good.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Felix, Hwang Hyunjin/Yang Jeongin | I.N (implied)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. ★ end game.

_Han Jisung_ _'s world revolves around modes of communication that seem unfathomable for the average human mind to process._

_It's simple; technology evades all possibility for human error. That's what any simpleton is taught. With knowledge that many have yet to grasp or adopt, is it really that far-fetched to reach for something Jisung knows cannot and will not betray his trust?_

_5 down,_

★★★★★

2 to go.

☆☆

_All for the greater good._

Three faces surround a pit of fury-inflamed infernos, its light springing up to brighten them with an uneasy spark. The faces are sullen, ghastly, fragments of what they used to be. There was no glow behind them, no spirit to thrive or breathe within the vessels that propelled them forward on its two feet.

The bout of uneasiness only serves to grow with the height and the glare of the flames, as if to emulate the burning within their chests; the only thing that has managed to bring them here, to stare back into soulless pits for eyes and stale frowns for smiles. At least it served as a decent replacement for a mirror.

But there's barely a waver in sight. All that moves is the prancing flames in their altruistic cavort. 

The three barely utter a breath, but their glares and their gapes are enough to emulate essays of deep-rooted hatred and betrayal. There had to have been at least one imposter among them.

Humans were much too prideful of themselves and their choices to believe that they could've interwoven themselves with the likes of a cold blooded murderer. A ripple within the depths of grey, murky lakes, a shadow within a frigid, deep trench, a scrape of metal against metal.

That was not a human, but a monster.

And could it have been, that one of the very faces staring back into one another was exactly that monster. A human being making a sentient decision to choose what lives could be spared and which couldn't.

The question remains, would their lives be spared?

It would be imperative, one thinks, to travel back to all those months back. Back to when Jeongin had first been killed.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

With a resounding flicker, Jeongin's computer is overtaken with color, and preppy opening music starts playing as the title screen comes to life. Text at the bottom of the screen reads out 'Press any key to start'.

It was an astounding achievement, one that Jisung had slaved hours upon days upon weeks to complete. Finally, he'd achieved the final goal, after the horribly long droughts of silence echo off of his quaint workspace, where papers piled up, mugs refilled with caffeine-laced drinks that got cold too fast, and all that could be felt against his skin was the glare of an illuminative screen. Perhaps, he thinks, that was how it had always been set up for him.

And Jeongin was its first lucky player. With nothing but a 'good luck!' from Jisung after he'd gotten off the phone with him, Jeongin was finally left to his own devices and a promise that his laptop certainly wouldn't contract any viruses.

He presses the enter key and watches as the screen lights up with the cast of characters Jisung had ever-so-kindly taken to basing off of his own friend group, down to the smallest details. Immediately, as he expects, Jeongin's eyes filter over to his own avatar, and he presses it to survey how well Jisung had done in capturing his prowess, along with the profile it utilizes.

Approachability: medium? What was that supposed to mean?

Jisung's lucky he's managed to capture Jeongin's essence quite well otherwise.

**WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH THIS CHARACTER?**

**[YES]** [NO]

Jeongin jumps as the background music switches to one that fits more naturally with the fluttery, bright atmosphere surrounding his character. The gameplay starts.

_Here we are, in the middle of a large park alight with numerous dog owners and their furry friends alike. The birds are singing, the bees are carrying out their arduous tasks, the butterflies are fluttering. Ah, what a perfect day to spend outside!_

_But, oh, what is this!_

_A boy stands next to the length of a cherry blossom tree. His eyes are trained on his untied shoes, watching as a few petals fall over them. Their pink is the exact same shade as the shoes. It provides some calm amongst the storm brewing within him. Literally._

_[ A stormy cloud sits atop YJ's head ]_

_He appears to be sullen, only perking up when he notices the presence of a player._

**_YJ: Oh. Hello. You've caught me on a bad day, traveler. Today was going so well! The sun was shining,_ **

_[ Sunshine momentarily replaces the stormy cloud before immediately changing back ]_

**_YJ: the birds were singing,_ **

_A blue bird proceeds to pass by them, chirping harmoniously before reaching YJ's hemisphere and crashing its beak into the tree's trunk._

**_YJ: but now, everything's gone wrong._ **

Th game momentarily glitches, causing the word 'wrong' to temporarily disappear. Jeongin dismisses it as a design bug.

**_YJ: You see, I lost my dog, Bread._ **

At that, Jeongin sighs. So that was why Jisung had asked if it would be alright to use Bread for the development as well. He glances at the very same dog that's sat by his feet as he plays, smile radiating at the sight of the peaceful friend.

**_YJ: Have you seen him? He's a fully grown, standard corgi, he wears a white collar with a pink pendant. You can't miss him!_ **

**_..._ **

**_YJ: Oh, you haven't? That's a shame. Thanks, anyway._ **

_[ The storm cloud grows larger ]_

**_YJ: What's that? You'd like to help? Ah...no, there's no need. Mom said I could watch over him on my own today, so I have to be the one to find him._ **

_..._

**_YJ: Huh, what's that? You think that there's no use in wallowing in my own self pity if I'm going to do this alone?! Well, I think you...you should...you...,_ **

_[ The storm cloud is replaced by red anger, until it eventually dissipates and YJ's features twist back into its normal, approachable state ]_

**_YJ: You're right. I'm sorry, traveler, it looks like I'll be needing your help, after all._ **

**WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN THIS CHARACTER ON THEIR QUEST?**

**[YES]** [NO]

**_YJ: So, where should we look first, traveler?_ **

**_[ Three different sceneries are shown: one is by an ice cream stand manned by a kind-looking fellow, the second is by one of the playground's courses where most of the dogs are crowded around, and the third is by the main entrance ]_ **

**WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO FIRST?**

[ICE CREAM STAND] **[MAIN PLAYGROUND]** [MAIN ENTRANCE]

**_YJ: Great idea! Most of the dogs are there, maybe he ran off with one of them._ **

_YJ and the traveler move out of screen until the scenery changes to that of the main playground area, where several dogs are sat by their owners, some of them wagging their tails, some of them sat contently, some looking to be asleep._

_But there seems to be no corgi in site._

**_?: Hello!_ **

_Another avatar perks up at the site of YJ and the traveler, vehemently waving, smile wide and bright, while his small dog whines at him for attention. Quickly, he tosses the ball in his hand a short distance away before turns back to face the pair again._

Jeongin holds back a chuckle at Jisung's depiction of Hyunjin within the game.

**CLICK TO VIEW THIS CHARACTER'S PROFILE !**

****

**_HH: Fancy seeing you here, YJ! Isn't it a lovely day!_ **

_HH exaggeratedly takes in huge bouts of air while YJ prominently frowns and rolls his eyes at the boy's actions._

**_YJ: Not for everyone. Have you seen Bread?_ **

**_HH: Why yes, I think I saw him with you earlier._ **

_[ YJ bubbles with anger for the second time that day, steam evaporating from his head ]_

**_YJ: No, you nimrod! After that, have you seen him alone?_ **

**_HH: Well no, of course not, i'd expect to see an owner with their dog!_ **

_Ironically, in the not-so-far distance, HH's long-haired chihuahua bounds into the bushes and disappears beneath the mound of leaves, twigs, and shrubbery._

**_YJ: I knew you'd be no help. Come on, traveler, let's go_ **

**_HH: Take care, you two!_ **

_YJ doesn't respond as he sweeps himself and the traveler off screen again, back to the spot by the cherry blossom tree._

**WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO NEXT?**

**[ICE CREAM STAND]** [MAIN ENTRANCE]

 _YJ: Good idea! Maybe we'll_ **_f̵̗̺̽i̷͔͒͝n̷̆̊͜d̸̜̩̿̇_** _–_

_..._

Jeongin squints at his black screen, repeatedly clicking at his mouse and random keys in any futile attempt at getting his laptop to start back up. Could it have just powered off? But his laptop would've exited the software and reminded him to charge it.

 _Completely safe, my ass_ , Jeongin sighs to himself, _if Jisung is the reason he contracts a virus he'll never hear the end of it_.

Suddenly, with no warning, his screen is alit with life again, and its engines are back up and running. It's all back to normal, as if nothing had been out of place at all.

With caution, Jeongin proceeds. The game had skipped to the next scenery change with Felix's avatar in its forefront.

 **CLI** **CK TO VIEW THIS CHARACTER'S PROFILE !**

****

**_LF: Hello, valued customers!_ **

_[ A rainbow sits atop LF's head, radiating the same shine as his smile ]_

**_YJ: Hi LF! By any chance, have you seen Bread anywhere around here?_ **

**_LF: Hmm...I seem to remember seeing him by_ ** **_g̴̾͜e̶͍̋t̷͙̓ ̶̨o̵̡̔ũ̸͜t̶͔̑_ ** **_the main gate!_ **

Wait what?

Jeongin couldn't have imagined that, right? The text's distortion and the screen having suddenly been overtaken by red, even in that split second when his chest had dipped and the hair on his skin stood up with alarm. It had been too much.

Maybe he'd just let Jisung know that his bugs were too much for Jeongin's fragility to handle. He'd already known his erratic nature would find any potential glitches ominously disorienting, which was why he'd been quick to deny Jisung's request to be the game's first test subject.

It was only after he'd teased its soundtrack, showed snippets from the development of its art, and practically thrown him for a player-intensive loop that eventually broke through his seemingly uncaring demeanor.

It's only as he picks his phone up to let Jisung know that he's planning on resigning on the idea of subjecting himself to any more glitches that he comes to a certain realization. Could Jisung have placed them in purposefully? Was this another game of horror disguised as the opposite through pastel color schemes and charming character designs?

Whatever it was, Jeongin knew he wouldn't have the gall for it.

But, what was this?

Jeongin feels himself almost lurch out of his seat, yet again after having fallen under a daze, staring back into his screen, which still displayed Felix's avatar quite clearly, maybe even _more_ openly than before, somehow.

His phone had begun ringing. It was Jisung.

With a small, nervous nip at the dry skin of his bottom lip, Jeongin finally feels the overbearing silence crackle through the air as the ringing halts and the phone is up to his ear.

This is Jisung, there's nothing to be afraid of.

'Hey, innie! Sorry to bother you while you're playing, I just wanted to see where you were at. I'm pumped to hear your thoughts so far!'

Jeongin's breath stifles at that, having fallen into a short loss for words, leaving Jisung without a single utterance on the other end of the line.

'Jeongin?'

'Yeah, sorry. Ah, it's just that...Jisung...I have to ask, _are you going Doki Doki on me?'_

'Sorry?'

'Are you...,' Jeongin sighs, searching for a better rephrasing 'I don't know...setting me up for a horror instead? Like...is this your plan to creep me out?'

'What? Why'd you think that?' Jisung sounds genuinely confounded.

'It's just...it keeps glitching, but...they seem so specific, like they were planned.' Jeongin tries his best to explain, although his theory already feels as if it's fallen short from the fact that Jisung hadn't broken yet.

'Ah, well, I'm sorry about any glitches, but no, they're not meant to be there. Whatever you spot from here, let me know of, ok? I'll get them fixed in no time!'

'But–,'

'Have fun, Innie! I'll talk to you when you're finished with at least one pathway.'

And just like that, the line cuts off and Jisung's gone. Jeongin had never told him how far into the game he'd gotten.

Jeongin looks back at his phone with an increased wariness, the remaining quiet – save for the wisps of his breath that erratically expel from his mouth – suffocating any semblance of serenity he'd been able to establish prior to his paranoia making a show of creeping up.

A breeze shuffles past, causing the papers on his desk to flutter and shake, as if it too, had been shivering with him. It's only when his eyes bore into the window, which had been cracked open the slightest bit, that he takes notice of the source of such, seemingly pleasant zephyr. If it were any other measly day, Jeongin would've assumed that he'd simply forgotten to shut it closed, as he finds himself lifting it open quite often.

Today, however, the approaching of midnight's darkest hour, the effervescing chill that rode up his spine in accordance with the rippled shifting of his diaphanous curtains. It was a sight that tasted so sweet for daytime recollections, but smelled so horrid for preconceived, nighttime terrors.

Jeongin should've been fine, this sort of thing wouldn't have gotten to him on any normal day, so what was wrong with this one? What made this particular occurrence so putridly asphyxiating?

Jeongin does leap out of his chair this time, his heavy hands swinging up to finally close the window shut. Within the same second, he feels his heart plummet out of the window with the gust of wind, when the background music of the game that had previously cut off springs back to life, seemingly through its own fruition.

Jeongin feels himself moving forward, plummeting back down onto his chair, seemingly out of _his_ own fruition.

The screen shifts its focus from LF's booth back to the opening screen with the seven avatars. Jeongin doesn't move.

It shifts again, automatically choosing to view YJ's page. Jeongin barely breathes.

Initially, it shows him the same profile as before, until about a second more passes and the screen flashes red. A deep, ghastly red that seeps through the length of the screen with its coloration so ruthlessly that it almost seems like it might be something other than harmless pixels.

Every bit of the screen poisoned by scarlet liquid ends up distorted and abused by its merciless dexterity.

Jeongin watches it drip over its digital contents, watches it glide and move as any substance of tangibility and authenticity. But it couldn't have been real, right?

Even then, this certainly wasn't any ordinary glitch. Jeongin tries to stand up, but he can't.

**WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH THIS Character?**

**[YES]** **[YES]**

Jeongin feels his mind haze, as if he's been placed under some sort of self-induced sedative. His heart rate picks up but the value of its beats dwindles significantly. It's akin, he thinks, to the feeling of being underwater. To the feeling of falling under the pressure of its consuming depths. To the feeling of selective immobility and muffled reverberation in a medium through which a person is permitted to relish in enthrallment of the unknown.

Again, he attempts to stand up. He can't.

Jeongin's been underwater for too long. It's only a matter of time until...

**_'Good night, little fox.'_ **

★☆☆☆☆☆☆

'Unknown?'

Jisung's eyes pry into every single word and every single letter that presents itself to their glowing irises. Each one stands above the other, as if his mind had been working on integrating each one into it, to be buried within a compendium of other anonymities that prevailed there.

'They think he killed himself.'

Like practiced clockwork, Jisung feels himself feign a horror-stricken gasp for air. One that would sound just as ghastly and heart-wrenching as that of any average person's learning of a valued friend's untimely death.

His hands quiver with disbelief, wavering eyes drench with grief, and features fall with an unknowing, knowing fear. The unknowing, knowing fear that consumes anyone that has been struck with newly obtained information that dowses their thoughts with its deftness but keep them from being able to process the input.

What results is whatever humane response we're coded to obtain.

We're not trained to know the adequate response to such news. We're not trained to know.

Jisung cries like he hadn't watched Jeongin's crimson liquid ooze over his supple skin, soaking into the material of his knit sweater, splattering onto every surface before him. The computer was red, the mouse was red, the keyboard was red, the weeping dog at his feet, too.

Jisung weeps like he hadn't felt the satisfying finality of drawing electric shards of seemingly harmless codes through the boy's throat.

Jisung falls into the arms of his friend in a fit of hysterics like he hadn't watched as Jeongin stared at him through the screen with wide, dread-struck eyes. Dread birthed from betrayal, dread birthed from the drowse of an early demise, dread birthed from the inability to yell and cry for help, to see and feel someone for the last seconds of life that remained within his grasp.

Jisung feigns heartbreak. Like he hadn't killed Yang Jeongin last night.

★☆☆☆☆☆☆

'Sung?'

'Hm?' Jisung hums, not bothering to look up from where he's scribbling down a mess of codes that look like random number-letter splotches to Jeongin.

'Why do you do this?'

'Do what?'

Jisung doesn't look up, still, but from his peripheral, he can clearly see the boy playing with his hands on his lap, a hesitancy in his movements. A fear.

'You've been so busy working on this game. It almost feels like it should be your life's work, yet it's only being made for us. I mean– why...why put yourself through so much?'

'Hm. Well, it may not be my life's work, but it sure is a big passion project,' Jisung finally looks up. Jeongin's stature is still hesitant, still fearful, but Jisung's smile eases the tension 'it may not seem like it, but making something like this for you guys really is important to me, alright? I'm not developing this for monetary means or purposes of validation, but that's not the only joy an artist can receive from sharing their work.'

'But–,'

'But, nothing! I think the satisfaction I'll be receiving from the result and the feedback will be enough to make up for all these lost hours.'

At some point, within the few steady seconds that remains as Jisung fluidly focuses back on his work, attentive eyes tracing every bit of writing before him, Jeongin moves his chair closer.

He's certainly aware of the fact that he'll gain no value from simply staring back at the boy as he works, as none of it would register, even if Jisung tries explaining anything to him again. But there's a certain comfort he finds in watching the boy work for something he was indefinitely thrilled for. A drive he's admired from having known the boy for years, and hopefully more to come.

'Jeongin? You're bleeding.'

Jeongin's eyes snap back over to the boy next to him, a questioning tilt of his head enough to signify a need for confirmation on whether he's heard that correctly or not.

'You're...here,' Jisung reaches for a napkin, reaching to press it over his bottom lip, where Jeongin hadn't felt his blood dribble over its dry surface. It's only when he reaches to hold onto the napkin for Jisung, that he takes notice of the single drop of blood, permeating into the material of his white sweater, from a general lack of caution.

'Oh no! This is my favorite sweater.' Jeongin attempts to mumble, with attention to the cut on his lip.

'No worries, little fox,' Jisung pets at the boy's cherry hair, an amused grin painting his light features 'we'll get you a red one. Then you won't have to worry about it getting spoiled.'


	2. ★ patched wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter than the usual chapter length but i promise hyunjin's character/story will be expanded upon !  
> also because i guess i love hurting myself i read through this while listening to 'i want to wake up so badly' from the haunting of hill house soundtrack ,, it's hauntingly beautiful to me but that could also just be because of the wreck this show put me through ,, ok sorry continue on !

**TW: ASSISTED SUICIDE**

Jisung's steadfast heartbeat seems to rival the speed at which the flames before them seemed to grow and grow. Its flickers and sparks lift to reach as far as the sky's own assortment of fiery celestial bodies. Their shine doesn't seem to take away from that of the scorching pits that remained alight in their chests.

Chan is the first, within such impudent reticence, to speak up.

'I think we all know why I've asked you two here,' Chan's voice resounds ominously 'but the question remains, which courageous friend will be airing out the obvious?'

'Cut the crap, Chan.' Changbin's tone holds spite, the bitter lace of venom weaved through his short remarks 'The answer is clear as day. You're just trying to confuse things.'

'Fuck _you_ , Seo,' Chan spits back, with about as much zeal and malice 'don't try to pinpoint this on me.'

At that Changbin scoffs. The fury in Chan's eyes, his heightened stature, the fire within him that continues to grow and grow and reach the stars, just like the one facing them all. Jisung shrinks, their established hostility pushing his eyebrows nearer in a deep furrow and his own spirits further down. He gulps, drawing his eyes to his lap.

'Jisung,'

His breath wavers. Momentarily, he forgets how to inhale without the challenge, feeling the slimy grime at the base of his throat gather a repertoire of impasses. His eyes blur and sting, maybe from the red glare in front of him, maybe from the green glares of two boys on either side of his frantic view.

'who do _you_ think it is?'

★☆☆☆☆☆☆

How is one meant to _learn_ how to process the vanishing of a loved one from existence?

A death that impedes and obstructs all semblance of seemingly far-fetched hope that lingers within the grip of anyone that relished in daydreams. Anyone with an objective that always feels too big, too childish.

Hwang Hyunjin lived his life hoping and placing firm belief in that nostalgia could build long roads through which dreams could flourish and a happy, complacent ending would await at everyone's door. That with every grasp he places on these big dreams, these bubbling bodies of tightly held commemorations would result in the grandest of his triumphs.

The attitudes with which we base the framework that borders our life demonstrates exactly what kind of response we'll recourse to upon learning of news of such heightened monstrosity. What was once glistening hope came to be covered in soot and where wounds were previously sealed, blood seeped through again, tearing through the tarnished cuts.

It was only a matter of time, until. Until.

Until Hyunjin felt himself deteriorate again. Until any semblance of human contact had been eradicated from day-to-day activities. Until the disheveled figure in the mirror looked more like a twisted ghoul. As if it was he that had died.

The group doesn't quite expect to commune much after the horrid events tore them apart. No, they do not particularly expect game night to feel alright for anytime soon, not without Jeongin's wisecracks, not without his competitiveness becoming his downfall, not without his loud whining, not without him.

And Hyunjin. Oh, Hyunjin had it bad. So horrendously bad that he hadn't attended the funeral. Out of all seven, he had been the one to sit it out, to spend the night weeping into his sheets, to wallow in his own self repentance. Repentance for his disgustingly positive outlooks. There was no road driven by nostalgia. There were no happy endings. Hyunjin should've known that.

It's a heaviness that weighs down on him as his thoughts trail over that day. That night. Whenever he'd sent a slew of messages to Jeongin, just around the time he'd been presumed to have been killed. He had sent him 5 empty sentences, a stupid picture, while Jeongin had been losing his life.

And perhaps it's selfish to dismiss the possibility that the boy could've killed himself. Because he was right there, right at his grip, so close, so far. Jeongin could've called, he could've talked, they could've talked.

He was killed, Hyunjin was surer than sure.

But what did that matter now? Hyunjin hadn't felt so useless since he was a mere child without any meaningful control. When he was a mere child tripping over sidewalks and meeting cute boys readily equipped with hello kitty patches.

Hyunjin's mind hazes, he remembers Jeongin. Oh, Jeongin. The little boy that patches his small scratch up, the little boy that had rumbled about becoming a nurse one day, the little boy that had pressed a plastic stethoscope to the right side of his chest (close enough) and told him that he needed to move more.

Which he did end up doing, a whole lot more. With Jeongin. It was always with him.

And in the end, that was how he'd gone out. A little boy with big dreams, a little boy that wanted to be a nurse, that wanted to help people.

Hyunjin's mind clouds, he remembers it all. And it brings copious bouts of pain, it riddles his psyche with entrails of _him_. Of his smile, his hair, his sweaters, his laugh, his dimples, his eyes.

Hyunjin's mind wanes, he remembers them. Jisung, who seems to be having it much worse than he should, who'd tossed his hard work to the side in excruciating anguish because it was the game Jeongin would've been playing as he died. Chan, the coroner's son, who'd stepped up to ensure that any funeral preparations were in order. Changbin, who'd taken to raising his dog and hoping that he could provide him with as much love as Jeongin did. Minho, who had apparently indulged in copious amounts of alcohol during the service – and likely after it – in hopes that it'll replace the cold emptiness that overtook him in place of humanity.

Hyunjin had no right to be closing himself off from everyone.

Maybe that's why he readily presses the single notification that manages to catch his eye during one of his dozes into space. His skin had been feeling slimier and grittier than usual, and his hair fell in messy, dry tresses, devoid of color or expression. Even then, he's able to crack his tired eyes open for this one message.

 **ji !!:** hi, i know it's been long, and i know how terribly jarring this has been on everyone. But, i'm genuinely really scared for you. hyunjin, please, please, please, say something. i haven't heard you speak, seen a message from you, or anything of the sort in weeks. i know how overwhelming this all is, i know it's something we can't resolve in a day, and its horrible that we even have to learn to move on, but i really just need to know how you're doing. i've checked up on the others, and i know it seems horrifying, but maybe talking to someone can help. you can't close yourself off from the world :( please, talk to me. ****

It's a good 5 minutes after etching the message, the words, into his head that Hyunjin comes to one, quick conclusion. Maybe he should finally start listening.

 **Hyunjin:** hey ji

 **Hyunjin:** you're right...I've been silent for too long it's just

 **Hyunjin:** it hurts so much sung

 **Hyunjin:** I'm in so much pain

 **Hyunjin:** He's everywhere I go, everywhere I look, every thought I have

 **Hyunjin:** fuck fuck I regret so much so cmuch but most of all I regret never telling him I loved him

 **Hyunjin:** I regret never being honest I regret all the lies I regret never holding him like I wanted to I regret never getting him that one bracelet I regret never having given him the life he deserved for the short time it lasted

 **Hyunjin:** and im infuriated I'm so fucking mad that a precious life was taken. The life of a boy. A fucking kid

 **Hyunjin:** I can't live without him ji

 **ji !!:** hyunjin, please breathe, I'm with you

 **ji !!:** please, don't do anything you'll regret

 **ji !!:** keep talking if you'd like, it might help

 **Hyunjin:** I don't know... I can't discern between reality and daydreams anymore

 **Hyunjin:** I can't fucking wake up from whatever daydream this is it won't go away I keep trying but it wont go away I just want to feel normal again

 **ji !!:** hyunjin...what are you doing now

Hyunjin opens his eyes. How long had they been shut?

He looks around him. He's in front of a mirror. His bathroom's mirror. A ghost stares back at him, its eyes black and its soul replenished. His breath hitches, for how could he have traveled from the confines of his bed to the mirror in such a seemingly short amount of time?

 **Hyunjin:** I'm confused... I don't understand

 **ji !!:** where are you

 **Hyunjin:** sink. bathroom sink

 **ji !!:** why

 **Hyunjin:** I don't know..

 **Hyunjin:** I'm scared..ji..i'm scared

 **ji !!:** there's nothing to be afraid of, love

Hyunjin's body racks and rattles with his cries, he's positive the entire neighborhood can hear him. He's broken, demolished, eaten up by the bite of truth. His shoulders shake, his tears fly out, pour over his shirt, his face, his neck.

He almost laughs, laughs at how pathetic he is. Laughs at what shell of a person he's become, laughs at how quickly he hides and crawls back into its walls of security and shelter. He's useless, absolutely useless. Jeongin wouldn't have wanted to be with such a person. Jeongin wouldn't have loved such a person.

 **ji !!:** hyunjin?

Hyunjin's head has never felt hazier, his heart had never run at a pace so rapid, yet so agonizingly slow. His hands grip onto his dying strands with a tenacity that disappeared when he mourned for the boy he'd loved.

Loved. Loves.

 **ji !!:** it's time to wake up

Hyunjin blinks down. What?

When had he gotten a hold of pills?

 **ji !!:** wake up. wake up and meet Jeongin again.

Hyunjin retches, feeling the cold pills travel down his throat in a speedy trek. He attempts to heave out puffs of air, attempts to spit them out, but his mind does not follow suit. Instead, it pushes them down. Makes him gasp for air as they're forced into his system and he's falling to the floor in a last attempt at battling this weakness that seems to be right at his shoulder at every compromising moment.

It grips onto him with just as much persistence and pushes him down, leaving him with nothing to do but shake and breathe out incoherencies. It leaves his body racked with shivers and his eyes blurring up before they can read the final words directed to him, the screen illuminating around the same time his irises are doused in a sick black.

 **ji !!:** **_goodbye, hyunjin_**


	3. ★ warm

**TW: REFRENCES TO SUICIDE, DESCRIPTIONS OF SLIGHT DISSOCIATION**

There's a pause. A momentary lapse in lucid consciousness wherein Jisung is sure he's stopped breathing, perhaps having lifted into an unfeeling, astral form. It's a weird sensation, one that he'd become quite accustomed to during his childhood, on days whence it became easier to physically rip himself out of the tense mindfulness that compelled him to feel and breathe within the atrocious, beer-spiked air of his dad's living room.

It was more-than-likely a defense mechanism he'd become too accustomed and comfortable with resorting to.

'Who do _you_ think it is?'

Fuck. This was real. Jisung was becoming more and more circumspect to the veracity of his situation. Changbin and Chan were here, he was here, there was no escaping this situation.

Given that his actual choosing of any specific party to side with would be highly incredulous, he opts for the next best thing. If the next best thing was to be uttered out of his dry mouth with a frantic stupor and a frightful, wide-eyed gaze. Which was, naturally, what came to Jisung whenever he was in situations that enhanced his tension levels.

'I don't know!'

Ah, there it is. The clueless act.

'It has to be one of us, doesn't it?' Chan bites back 'I mean, who the fuck would choose to kill 5 people in a specific friend group unless they were within it, right?'

'I don't know–,'

'Are you sure about that, Sungie?' The utterance of the nickname out of Changbin's toxin-laced tone sounds foreign. Not only for the fact that he hadn't heard it in so long, but also for the fact that it had never been used so dauntingly before.

'Are you _really_ sure?'

★★☆☆☆☆☆

The last time Seungmin happens to recall ever feeling anything but dread upon forcing his eyes to register the light behind his light-weighted curtains happens to be a very specific day: March 20th. That was around 2½ months ago. 2 months from Jeongin's mysterious death. 1 month from Hyunjin's definitive suicide.

Seungmin hadn't been feeling his best before the pair's untimely deaths swayed his and his friend's entire perceptions of reality and existence. Why, with extreme bouts of tragedy following him at every step, he doesn't see why it would be wrong to continue to drown himself in work.

He'd spent a good amount of time stumbling through his days with a general grogginess and uncaringness, while also maintaining that submission dates were final and there was no way of going about it, because apparently 'I have been feeling increasingly detached from my physical consciousness for hours on end' was not a viable excuse.

In that, he does what he's best at. Allows the feelings to torment him from the inside out, to linger within his every movement, while his corporal body stays dormant and abiding.

And no one would ask, no one would notice, no one would bother.

If, to the eyes of wanderers, or in a much more gratifying sense, the eyes of his actual friends, enduring the brute of the same tragedies he was, it seemed like he was heartless and deadbeat for throwing himself into work, yet again. Then, so be it.

Kim Seungmin had stopped caring a long time ago.

He'd cried at Jeongin's funeral, but not at Hyunjin's.

It was a bleak settlement of how the boy's woes and afflictions had led to his demise, had led to the erosion of his brain separate from his consciousness. Seungmin thinks, at least he doesn't have to suffer from the idea of pinpointing a perpetrator.

Because Seungmin had been there for Hyunjin when the boy relayed his ineffable attachment for Yang Jeongin. He'd been there to silently encourage him whenever he'd felt confident enough one day to throw all caution to the wind, and then there to hold him and let him cry on his shoulder when he ends up cowering out because of the fearfulness of it all.

It's one particularly stormy night when Seungmin feels himself rubbing at his sleepy eyes, watching as the words in his textbook morph into an unintelligible mush of letters, and somehow, numbers, that he decides to flip the heavy weight of its pages closed. At its loud clonk, Seungmin feels his head fall into his hands, the faint, yellow illumination of his desk light reflecting through the small spaces between his fingers, which rub over his fading strands. As if to emulate a particular feeling.

It takes him back to when Hyunjin would fall within his hold, on particular days, with the ubiquitous excuse that 'he just wanted a hug'. When he'd wound both arms, slowly but tenderly, around the back of his neck, tugging at it and permeating more heat than a scarf ever could. When his lips would rest somewhere within the crook separating his neck and his shoulder, to litter light pecks over his cold skin, warming it over through the smallest of exchanges. When he'd lift his hands up to rest somewhere within his ever-growing strands – a haircut was overdue –, to wound his fingers through them in a small touch of appreciation.

That's what he'd always say. 'A small touch of my appreciation for all that you've done for me'.

But it had never been small for Seungmin.

Because, and as he only begins to realize after he and Hyunjin had distanced themselves from each other, following their youngest friend's death, Seungmin relies on Hyunjin more than he cares to allow himself the will to admit.

The disappearance of a familiar figure to hold at night gave rise to more than just sleepless nights, for it drew from a particular space within Seungmin's heart as empty and cold and blank. Without Hyunjin's small whispers of affirmation. Without the imprints of his pretty lips over his skin. Without Hyunjin, Seungmin would never find normalcy again.

That was the first night Seungmin found himself crying over Hyunjin. The first night he'd felt the dread drown him in its rawest form. There was a sort of process to these situations, they say. The death of a loved one doesn't truly present itself to one's psyche immediately, doesn't completely register until it finally does and it's all that can roam around the depths of a human's mind.

They'll say, it's normal, to cry and heave out shaky sighs, to scream, to hurt, much after the death had occurred. It's the brain's way of allowing for closure.

Seungmin didn't cry during the funeral, but his eyes sweltered over tears that suffocate him whole an entire month after. They challenged the weight of the rain pouring over the drenched streets just outside. He was sure he'd wake up a resident or two on his floor solely from how loudly he'd been yelling into a void that had nothing to say in response.

That night, he'd fallen asleep with his head knocked over his thickest textbook, those tears drying over the surface of his cold, cold face.

Somewhere within the slightest bit of his cognizance left in him, Seungmin feels the weight of a blanket fall over his dreary shoulders.

That night, he dreams to be held within the arms of a particular star in the sky again.

★★☆☆☆☆☆

The last thing Seungmin expects to see that morning is a person. Any person. Because he lives alone and that would be odd.

His very minute expectations are thrown out of the window, from the second his eyes open the morning after his lovely, little nighttime inquiry. The second they creak open, and quickly close again as he heaves out a sigh and a supposedly private groan from the prominent aching of his neck and the croakiness of his limbs' motion-ability.

Supposedly private, as whenever Seungmin's eyes are screwed shut again, they fling back open, and his body physically heaves itself so far up that it makes the semblances of a migraine settle in.

All because he hears a short 'Good morning.'

Upon feeling his heart settle back into his chest and a hefty, tire-heavy sigh is exuded past his cold lips, he finally registers the identity of the perpetrator. It was Minho. In all his morning glory.

'What the fuck,' Is the first thing that Seungmin manages to utter through a guttural tone of voice. A generally, not so welcoming one.

'That's not the response my parents taught me,' Minho recounts, placing one of the two mugs in his hands in front of Seungmin's seething eyes 'but, perhaps I'll let it slide.'

'What the fuck is this?' Is all Seungmin can utter in his woozy stupor, despite the tea bag hanging out of the mug.

' _Tea_ , what the fuck else?' Minho responds with an obvious ferocity 'Look, I came here last night, or in the middle of the night – time doesn't exist. Anyways, you were knocked out, and I was pretty sure I couldn't move you, so I just put a blanket over you, because I am considerate, you know.'

'Just tell me _why_ you're here,' Seungmin muffles out while a hand attempts to rub at his sore neck 'before I kick you out.'

'Jeez, so mean,' Minho rolls his eyes 'I did try to call you on the way here, but I was supposed to be in a...thing, and it got canceled because of the storm while I was on the way here, so I thought I'd take refuge at your lovely apartment since it was close by. That's all. I'll be out of your hair, soon.'

Seungmin takes the opportunity to look over the boy before him in his stunned silence. He hadn't seen him in quite some time, as he recalls. Oddly, any interaction he'd been _fortunate_ enough to have with him was short and inconsequential, not to mention, Minho usually wasn't sober.

He appears to be a bit more well-off in comparison to previous encounters, some color had been restored within his features, his eyes didn't look to be as black and unassuming, and a general rim of sobriety shined within his demeanor.

'What was this _thing_?' As always, Seungmin doesn't miss the minute detail Minho had been hoping to move past swiftly.

'Doesn't really matter–,'

'I think I have a right to know, really.' Seungmin's eyebrows furrow.

'Why are you so cranky?'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, it's just that a supposed friend hasn't bothered to talk to me in months in his drunk trance, but _of course_ I'll let him stay here since you missed your fucking _thing_.'

'Are you serious?' Minho's palms are practically white from the strength with which he's gripping onto his – or rather, Seungmin's – mug. It's funny, Minho had declared this particular mug _his_ ever since he'd spotted it among the other ones within the younger's cabinets. It was a smaller, paw-printed, pink mug. As much as Minho didn't want to make felines his entire branding, he also definitively wanted to.

Seungmin would always leave the mug in the nearest cabinet. It was always expectedly placed and preened for Minho. It had truly become his, despite living in Seungmin's kitchen.

At least, that was how things were before their lives took a turn for the worst.

'You have some _fucking_ audacity to be talking about my habits when all you do is emotionlessly ward through work like a fucking robot. You're the one that doesn't reach out, you're the one to blame here, not me.'

'I haven't tried to reach out?!' Seungmin's standing up now, the slight raise of his voice making Minho jump, breaking his anger-lidded façade momentarily.

Seungmin got angry sometimes, his friends were accustomed to the sight. What he'd never do, however, was raise his voice.

'I _have_ tried to speak to you, I even came over to your house once, only to find out I was interacting with a void because you were out drinking again.'

'Y-you came over that day?'

The phrase doesn't sound as familiar or concise as Minho would like it to be. There had been more than one instance of this so-called 'out drinking again' Seungmin was vaguely describing.

'I did,' Seungmin practically shrieks 'I was so freaked out, I thought something had happened, that you– like Hyunjin,' Although accompanied by a slight waver and a blur of tears, Seungmin can't seem to finish the sentence.

'I called for your landlord, told him I was scared you'd done something, and then I found that fucking note on your bed,'

'Don't.'

' _This is to remind myself to drink lots of water._ ' Seungmin recites 'That's what it said. You planned it out, got the note written up, and then proceeded to consciously get wasted.'

'You wouldn't understand,' Minho mutters back in his jaded lethargy 'you, Mr. Perfect, Mr. I can't even properly mourn because all I know is how to be a waste of time.'

If Seungmin is affected by his words, he doesn't show it.

'You don't know, can't even begin to fathom, because all you know how to do is judge,' Minho continues, his words filing out in a continuous, messy string of words that barely sound coherent to him 'judge others for their decisions. Judge others for their problems. Maybe, just maybe, Hyunjin killed himself because he was fucking sick of being your friend.'

That was where a line had to be drawn.

'Get out, Minho.' Seungmin's words are short and as elementary as they can be, but they're fortified with so much poison, his nostrils are flared in so much fury, that Minho doesn't need to be told twice before he slams his untouched mug down and files out of the door.

★★☆☆☆☆☆

It was true.

Minho was right.

And perhaps that was one of the hardest pills Seungmin has ever had to swallow, even if he didn't want to hear any mention of Hyunjin's peculiar leave or the nature of it. That, alone, wasn't something Seungmin wanted to rack his mind about.

It was an odd occurrence, that morning, that led him to mull over the events of that very day. He'd been pouring the steaming water from his kettle into a black mug, when he felt its seething vapor waft up and onto his sensitive, cold skin. Unlike the kind of neutrality one would expect when an object of heightened heat comes into contact with an object of heightened chill – although, anyone familiar enough with chemistry or physics knew that this made no sense, and Seungmin himself was one such person –, Seungmin hisses and withdraws his hand from its handle.

During this valuable time of reflection, Seungmin's mind wafts back to that day. When Minho had left and Seungmin had stared back at the two, full mugs of wasted tea, he'd poured out the still-warm liquid into his sink in his fury. As he was emptying _Minho's cup_ , he'd miscalculated his aim and ended up with a broken mug and a red pinky.

The mug was mostly intact, it was but a small corner at its rim that had broken off, but even then, it felt like a sign that his already stifling relationship with Minho – and if he were finally honest with himself, with the entire friend group – was breaking off of the frail thread it was hanging by.

It was the first decision he'd made for himself in a long time. The decision to brush his air, pull on a coat, rush over to the bus stop, purchase a ticket, and plop onto a seat in the very back. The decision to partake in a cliché, character-like, developmental route to betterment.

He'd be stopping by at Minho's, at Chan and Felix's, at Changbin's, at Jisung's.

Anything he could possibly do to make things better, because at that point, the only thing that was truly stopping that from happening was him and his stubborn nature. If that ended up being the reason for the downfall of his meaningful friendships, he was sure he'd never forgive himself. He was sure Hyunjin never would.

So, as his head leans onto the window to his right, his eyes peer up into the crescent in the sky, very few stars surrounding it this time around. He finds himself stuck on the brightest one of the few, a shining speckle of reassurance that glistens even more firmly as his lids fall heavier.

That star was Hyunjin. And he hoped, with all of his heart, that he could make that star proud.

★★☆☆☆☆☆

Whenever Seungmin feels himself stirring awake, having expected his reminder to buzz him awake so as to not miss his stop, he feels a sort of incoherent haze settle within his chest. From that alone, he can't seem to familiarize himself with whatever unease is consuming him from the inside out.

A haze that expectantly only grows in severity when he looks up to find that the bus had completely emptied out. It wasn't exceptional, but it was highly unlikely for everyone to have met their stops already, since Seungmin's was only 20 minutes away and many stops would've lasted longer.

The haze turns into a sort of shock when his eyes read over the time on his phone. He would've missed his stop, meaning that his reminder hadn't gone off and he'd overslept way past the opportunity consider bettering himself with the state of his dishevelment.

With wary steps and an even warier stare, Seungmin edges closer to the front of the bus, feeling the chill of its air – an unnatural chill, one that feels like it's come straight out of a Tim Burton movie – wrap around the gloom that constantly engulfed him.

Although very hesitantly, Seungmin manages to mutter out an 'Excuse me, sir?'

It's only a few moments later, when the bus driver lifts his head that Seungmin feels himself nearly knock into the seat behind him and onto the stale floor.

'H-Hyunjin?' Seungmin hopes to god he's not hallucinating, and he's really just staring back into the bus driver's features. The more that he tries to visualize it differently, the clearer it becomes that he's looking back into a face he hadn't seen in an entire month and more, except for in daydreams – with all of its color, at least, since everyone had caught glimpses of Hyunjin's cold, barren, bluing corpse.

'Yes, silly, who else?' Hyunjin laughs – and oh, how beautiful it resounds, how authentically it travels to Seungmin's ears.

'But, I don't–' It's only then that Seungmin manages to recollect whatever hazy increments had been left behind 'am I dreaming?

'Maybe,' Hyunjin shrugs 'or you're staring off into space, indulging in fantasies, you _did_ do that a lot.'

'I did.' Seungmin repeats expressionlessly.

'Well, sit down!' Hyunjin motions over to the seat nearest him 'This is supposed to be our space for closure.'

'Closure?'

'Yeah, something like it.'

'I don't know what to say,' Seungmin had already settled down, but his legs still seem to ache 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'I don't know.' Seungmin struggles out, feeling an odd sensation settle at his chest. Instead of the subtle drumming of a heart, it's as if all that resides now is a pit. He leaves it down to the logistics of being caught up in a dream.

'Then maybe you're not sorry,' Hyunjin replies with an uneasy modesty 'maybe you're just looking for something to cling onto, to explain the hollowness in your chest.'

Through a subconscious will, Seungmin finds himself looking down, although the results are not quite what he could've anticipated for. Though muffled by a hand, he emits an appalled, smothered huff of air, as he becomes met with a literal hollow pit in his chest, smack in the middle. It's so big he's sure he can put a hand through it, but the thought is too appalling, so he decides not to even try that.

'What the fuck?' Amidst his smothered words, he barely notices the tears that prick at the corner of his eyes.

This isn't Hyunjin. This isn't Hyunjin. This isn't Hyunjin.

'I am me,' He manages to sound out aggravatedly, laughing when Seungmin lays a fearful gaze over his twisted features, attempting to inch closer to the window in his last reaches for rationality 'of course I know what you're thinking, aren't I in your brain?'

'It only begs the question,' He continues 'aren't you inflicting this torture onto yourself? Aren't you destined for failure in every sense of the matter from here on out?'

'Stop. No, you're w-wrong, I'm going to make things I'm better, I'm going to–,' The boys words are now completely and utterly saturated with his sobs, its persistence peering through every word he utters.

'Why are you crying, Min?' The corpse before him taunts 'Aren't you supposed to be the strongest? Isn't that how you carry yourself? What happened to that, I wonder.'

'Stop, stop, stop.' Seungmin feels his eyes shut, his hands flying up to his ears, feeling its cold only grow and grow despite his attempts at warming them up.

'Oh, I'll stop soon, it'll all be over soon.'

All Seungmin can hear as the speed the nightmare bus is going in continues to increase and the cold surrounding him continues to smother him with heightened intensity, is a deep, hollowing, screeching.

His eyes screw shut so tightly he's afraid he'll hurt them, but a voice persists on in his head as it starts to fade into obscurity.

Wake, wake, wake up.

And then, it all stops. Seungmin stops hearing, the assuring beating in his chest resumes, his senses dull. And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself nowhere other than the bleakest of voids. Alone in a sea of black that could consume him in one firm wave.

'I want to wake up,' He yells out, seemingly to no one.

'please, let me wake up,' He continues to shriek, only his voice seems to thin out.

'wake up...wake...wake.'

When the last of Seungmin's consciousness wears out, all he feels is cold, cold, cold.

And somewhere, within that expanse of black, he hears a small whisper **_'Sleep tight, Seungmin.'_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistakes or incoherencies, i wrote this in my own daze hh
> 
> Feel free to correct spelling errors ! English isn't my first language :]


	4. ★ drown out your sorrows

‘Are you _really_ sure?’

Of course he isn’t. Definitively, Jisung wants nothing more than to explain himself, than to rationalize his actions, but it’s a bleak truth, a strong notice, that reminds him that it would never work. That this was the fault in humans that he was trying to rid of in the first place.

It was only really Jisung’s fault for getting roped up in his seemingly perfect friendships. To have built such robust relationships with the 7 that used to gather around him on sleepless nights, with nothing to hold them up but traded whispers and muffled laughter.

It was Jisung’s own fault for making these friends, for giving in to Changbin’s invitation that one day, to sit out with him and Chan in the latter’s basement, drawing up random melodies from a beat-up keyboard and a rusty guitar.

It was Jisung’s own fault for opening himself up to countless other friendships, to Minho, to Felix, to Seungmin, to Hyunjin, even Jeongin, who _was_ the youngest out of them all.

And where had that led him but exactly where his father warned him as a child.

_‘Humans only live to disappoint.’_

The phrase rung through his head incessantly, at times, in the worst moments, at times, in the best. It had been the only thing he could hear now as Changbin and Chan’s fire-spiked eyes look back at him from either side. Two snakes ready to strike at any second. Jisung knows what type of game they’re playing.

He thinks, he’ll play along.

★★★☆☆☆☆

The second Chan picked his phone up on one seemingly simple day – there really weren’t any ordinaries, just simple or hectic –, he’d felt a sort of cold, dread settle somewhere between the space separating his ribs from his lungs. An occult chill that only continues to froth whenever his eyes befell over the contact name. ‘Jisung’.

While he couldn’t say it was exceptionally effortless for a friend group to remain intact or to sever any remaining life within it, when two had already been lifted from its seemingly, tightly-held circle, Chan still tried his best to do so.

Tragedies aside, it pained Chan enough to watch his own boyfriend wake up in random spurts in the night following horrible nighttime recollections, for the boy to force his state of extreme tire to stay awake for fear of what the night might bring him. He’d hold him as close was possible, read him pretty tales laced with a happiness none of them seemed to be able to indulge in as of late, and then feel the satisfying dip of his head, and eventually, the flicker of his eyelashes as his lids weigh down.

But Felix was far from where the trouble ended, for Chan was acutely aware of the pains all of the others remaining must’ve been enduring to have lost two beautiful souls within such a short range of time. Acutely aware that conversations could never just be normal again.

Which was exactly why the site of Jisung’s contact name, the picture pulled up being one of _Jeongin and Jisung_ that Chan remembers choosing for the fact that it encouraged so much delight within him that he hoped would translate to the call whenever he finally answered it.

Not this time. Chan only feels a remorseful dread, now. It wasn’t lost to anyone how regretful Jisung had _seemed_ upon finding out that Jeongin was found with a pool of red over his neck, over his clothes, onto his floor, onto his computer. The very same that had left nothing but an outwardly innocent still of Jisung’s game, and a word document, open to a lengthy, red-tainted, suicide note.

That, in addition to the fact that there were no signs of break-ins, no traces of life other than that of Jisung’s around the entire scene. It was barely investigated through, but Chan couldn’t help but dismiss such an idea. Jeongin wouldn’t. But he could’ve.

Chan does eventually answer, after a lengthy amount of time, though the dread only continues to expand.

Immediately, he’s met with a frantic, scratchy intone of Jisung’s normal speaking voice. It’s drenched with worry, and the boy takes a vehement amount of breaths in between his words. It’s evident that he’d been crying. 

Chan still recalls key phrases from that call. 

**_‘Chan…something’s wrong with Seungmin,’_ **

**_‘You need to…Y-you have to– we have to do something, I’m so scared, Chan, please,’_ **

**_‘He called me earlier…he was in a rush, I think, he was sobbing, talking about how he needed to do something,’_ **

**_‘He mentioned Minho…I..I tried calling him but he wouldn’t pick up,’_ **

**_‘Chan, Seungmin won’t call me back, he won’t answer, what if–,’_ **

At the time, it seemed like the perfectly logical thing to assure Jisung that he’d check up on him, assure Jisung that everything would be alright, even if the notion were farfetched.

Chan boarded the nearest bus.

Chan shouldn’t have done that.

Chan finds Seungmin, seemingly asleep at the very end of the bus. He feels relief befall over his shoulders, ridding them of tension. Seungmin must’ve been on his way to their town. Seungmin was alright.

But Seungmin didn’t respond. Seungmin didn’t wake up.

Seungmin never woke up again.

★★★☆☆☆☆

Minho was never one to make use of the most pristine words, sentences, or phrasings. In fact, it had almost always been Seungmin that used his words to move a room to tears, to fragile smiles, to feel and allow those emotions to fizz and bubble, as they were meant to.

He’d describe them as liquid, fluid, free-flowing. Words were liquid, they moved under their own intuition, fell freely when they wanted to, but still maintained a perfected structure. It could be morphed, it could spill over, it could stay intact, but it always acted differently under varying circumstances.

Still, Minho had somehow managed to take the floor during Seungmin’s own funeral. In such a time where a creeping edge resided in the air, along with a fear for what none of them seemed to be able to comprehend. It was the most dangerous of fears; a fear that knocked on your door, lulled you to sleep, and laid a chaste peck over your lids as they grew heavy. A fear that silenced you for lack of better phrasing.

Minho doesn’t remember much, but he remembers how cold he’d felt. The floor felt _so_ cold underneath his shoes – the same shoes he’d worn for the two funerals before this one –, as if he’d been stepping over snow in nothing but tattered socks, through which the frost and the chill was able to freeze a figure with ease of permeation.

But he’d spoken. And Minho thinks it counts. He thinks that, he’d done something true and righteous for once, and uttered a slew of confessionals and certainties, allowing his sprung up memories to lift out of his chest and condense into the clouds, pouring over the skies in the form of extensive rain.

It had rained just after the service, poured, pelted.

It’s a sight that lingers in his head, hours later, in the dead of night, when his eyes stare back at the never-ending downpour and how it glides over his window, how it pools over the streets and paints her with its cold, cold, coldness.

Minho’s own eyes are dry, perhaps from the vast amount of times he’s watched his glass fill back up with the resounding splash of liquid torture, from the sheer amount of times he’s felt his eyes fall over his screen whenever it lit up with a new message but dismissed it for nothing.

And it’s stupid, it’s odd, he thinks. Whenever he’d lifted his glass up, where its almost-clear liquid swirled with the tremor of his hands, where it bubbled, where it tilted, where it graduated in density of pigment. It’s at that very same second that he feels his eyes fall over his screen just as it lights up again. This time, it’s different. It’s a call.

A call from Han Jisung.

Minho only feels his tremor increase in intensity, his usually firm grip on his glass loosens so much that it almost tips over. He’s shaking erratically now, unnervingly now. Shaking and shaking and freezing over. Still, his grip on his phone just about manages to still enough for him to answer the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Min, thank god,’ Jisung heaves out, as if he’d been holding in a breath prior to hearing the boy answer ‘it felt like it was ringing forever, I…uh, never mind, look, um, would you be up for – I mean, we’re still not sure, but…we were planning on maybe getting everyone together for some…something? I mean, I…s-sorry, I just, I miss you all. So much. Min, I miss you so much, and I just…we need to– we need to stick by each other, more than ever, right now.’

Minho doesn’t even realize when his grip on the glass had loosened so much from having focused all of his interconnected senses on _only_ Jisung’s voice, that it ends up falling out of his grip completely and shattering onto the hardwood floor, shaking him out of a temporary, muzzling stupor but keeping him frozen.

‘Min, are you ok? What was that?’

‘I…,’ Minho’s eyes drift to the floor, his eyes stare back into the liquid spreading over the floor, seeping into the shards, moving as if it too, could feel and breathe just as well as him. It was almost as if his words had spilled over.

‘S-sorry, sorry. I’m freezing, um, sorry. My glass…I got distracted, my glass broke.’ The waver in the boy’s voice can barely be hidden now, and as if completely rendering him helpless, the gasp behind the line sends another chill over his weakening muscles.

‘Minho. Are you drinking again?’

There were brief areas of concession when it came to the habits of addicts and their hindering addictions. Minho wasn’t ultimately delusional, he saw how dangerous it was to be falling back into the hands of a liquid that could care less how he was feeling, when he had been doing _so well_.

‘Look, y-you don’t have to respond,’ Jisung sounds patchy too, as if his end of the call had been glitching, but Minho can tell it’s just like his ‘but, I need you to keep away from that, ok? You’re doing so well, Min, so well. Just…just, are you cold?’

Minho’s attempts at hiding his cold, unnerving state at the funeral must’ve been quite difficult to mask. Changbin had asked him, earlier, if he’d picked up a fever of sorts. Ever the caring individual, that boy was. Even when you could tell how much he had been hurting as well.

‘So cold,’ Minho feels the prickle of unshed tears sting his eyes beyond reprimand. It had stopped raining. Sickeningly poetic.

‘I’m so, so cold, and I don’t know w-why.’

‘Look, Min,’ Jisung’s voice is firm, but Minho can still detect the sliver of a shake in it ‘please…please stay safe, run yourself a warm bath, maybe light up a candle, take care of yourself, please, baby, please.’

Jisung’s rushed tone, his shivering reprise, his general state, it distracts Minho momentarily.

‘A-are you cold, too?’

‘I’m fine, baby,’ Jisung attempts to reassure ‘I just need you to do that, ok? I need you to be safe tonight. Would it help if I came over?’

‘It’s fine,’ Minho doesn’t think he’d like anyone to see him like this. Paling by the second, freezing as if he’d been shoved into ice-water, shaking as if he’d just endured the biggest scare of his life ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

★★★☆☆☆☆

Minho feels just about ready to beat himself to a pulp when he, upon sitting in his own confounding silence, feels the ache of the chill that still wraps around him increase, even in a pool of warm.

‘Are you sure you can’t?’ Jisung’s voice sounds out from the other line. Minho had propped his phone down on a small laundry basket that sat right by his tub. His knees were up to his chest, his arms wound around them in an attempt to settle their shake.

‘I’m sure, Jisung, I’m sure,’ Minho presses, squinting in an attempt to numb himself of the cold ‘I think if I heat it up anymore, it’ll boil me.’

‘Min, are you sure you wouldn’t like for me to be there?’ Jisung questions. On the other line, his eyes stare back into his computer screen. On the other line, Jisung is staring back at Minho’s game version avatar. On the other line, Jisung has no intention of actually seeing Minho.

‘I’m beyond helping,’ Minho whimpers, remembering the last time he’d dragged a friend into the mound of bullshit that formulated his personality ‘please don’t.’

‘Min, baby,’ Minho almost feels the prickle of tears again, still he tries pushing them back. He hates how fearful Jisung sounds. He hates himself for doing this, again and again ‘I don’t mind. You can forget the tub, I’ll hold you, I’ll lull you to sleep, I’ll even kiss your eyelids so they’ll only picture the most beautiful of dreams.’

Minho’s teeth bite into the flesh of his lips. It becomes harder and harder to remain within his consciousness. It becomes harder and harder. His eyes are still squinted shut; his eyes can’t seem to wrench themselves open.

He doesn’t even recognize exactly when the pitch black that faces his view, morphs into a standing picture. It’s from that very same day, from when he’d given his speech. When he’d done the very first thing that week that didn’t make him absolutely detest the person in the mirror.

His footsteps are light, agile, his heartbeat too. With a prominence in his chest, he isn’t sure where he’d gotten, he stops right at the podium, and faces the crowd of grieving faces.

Momentarily, in the flash of a second, a shiver rakes through his body, and out of his own admission, he whispers a short, barely clear ‘It’s so cold in here,’

But it’s not odd, not really. Not when he’d landed himself within these walls again. Not when the corpse of his friend laid just behind him, having been made up to look as humane as possible.

‘I, um,’ Minho begins, his own shaky hands buried within his crossed-over arms, his lips barely able to shield the same falter settling into his voice ‘I remember the very first time I’d met Seungmin. And I always found that f-funny, because I’m usually forgetful – I, uh, I forget how I would’ve felt in certain situations, how the person looked, how the world around us looked, the colors that strook me the most.’

Minho pauses for a heavy, heavy second. He continues.

‘But not that first meeting with Seungmin, not at all. I remember everything, from the color of the bench I was sat on, to the clothes I wore that day, to the ones he did, to the very first words he’d ever directed towards me:,’

“Excuse me, I’m holding onto a spare umbrella, if you’d like it? It looks like the rain’s gonna start pelting over us more harshly soon.”

Minho quotes, imagining the boy’s voice in his head.

‘And I remember…I remember feeling confused, because I hadn’t yet felt the light drizzle formulating over us, not until he’d said that. The very same second, I felt one land right over my face, and trail down my cheek. It stunned me into silence for a moment, I froze up. It’s stupid, but when I was little, I hated storms with a burning passion, I hated them so much and made sure to stick by my mother whenever they came around. Let her hold me and whisper stories to distract me. Something she’d told me once, something that stuck quicker than anything else, was that no matter how horrendous it would sound, no matter how scary, I’d always have a guardian angel watching over me, just above my shoulders, shielding me from that rain. Just as quickly as it would start, they’d be there to ensure that it felt like it had already stopped.’

Minho’s eyes are wandering now, as if they’d been replaying his words in the form of a film reel.

‘And for some reason, it’s always stuck with me, and…I couldn’t help but think back to it, at that very moment. Seungmin…he was standing right underneath the only working streetlight surrounding us. In the darkness of the night, he was alight. And I remember, when it had taken me some time to answer him back, he’d signed the question to me,’

Minho chuckles under his breath, a smile stretching over his features while his eyes remain wandering. For just a second, he feels the cold lift. Just that second.

‘And I panicked, I stuttered out a reply, told him I wasn’t deaf, and gratefully accepted that umbrella. He’d even moved just out of that one streetlight, the only one, so he could sit by me. The moment felt so fated, so predestined. I knew it, I just did, I felt it. And I remember…when he’d smiled back at me, and the second I’d opened that umbrella up, the rain really did start pelting harder and harder, until I was sure a storm was oncoming. Even then, Seungmin stayed there…still there as we talked, as we laughed, as he lifted me out of my surroundings as if there had been no storm. I’d even told him about the guardian angel story, and he…he laughed, but not mockingly, he just laughed, and he’d been so alight and bright and happy despite what had been going on around us. And I couldn’t help but feel…feel like he’d stretched out his wings, and wrapped them around our figures, I couldn’t help but feel like he’d been sent to protect me.’

Minho’s eyes seem to snap back into reality then. The film reel stops playing, and his eyes cut to pitch black until they land over Chan’s, in the crowd. Chan’s gaze, consumed by unshed tears, but a smile, so true, so righteous.

‘So, um, I’m sorry for holding you long. I guess, something to take from all of this is…that…even with all that we’ve lost, we’ve to remember that they’ll never _truly_ leave us,’

Minho looks back at his friends. Every single one.

‘they’ll always be here. We’ll feel it, we’ll know.’

★★★☆☆☆☆

Minho’s eyes sting. They sting so much; in the pitch blackness they’ve been doused under. He tries to open them, he tries, again and again.

‘It’s quite a shame that you can’t see this, I did spend so long programming it.’

 _Jisung_. Jisung?

Minho tries to speak. He tries.

‘Do you feel that, Min?’

The water. It’s rising, rising, and rising. It’s just on parr with that cold. That dreadful, putrid cold.

‘That speech you gave today. I’ll have to admit, it was so harrowing, so raw, I didn’t expect that from you at all.’

Minho can’t speak, he can’t see.

‘I wonder…if that’s why you’d been to Seungmin’s that night instead of group therapy, like you were supposed to?’

Minho cries, he screams, but no one can hear him.

‘You’d made up that horrible excuse just to be shut out. How pathetic.’

Minho falls under the crashing waves of liquid underneath him. It’s so deep, so huge, he can’t possibly move himself out, it’s too late for him.

‘No one will hurt you now. No one can hurt you now.’

Minho can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. The water consumed him whole, stretching out its sharp teeth, preparing to shut its unhinged jaw over his helpless, immobile figure.

_‘You won’t have to wake up, ever again.’_


	5. ★ strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief panic attack, mentions of past trauma, PTSD

The air’s stiffening frolic reaches a distant memory within the tarriances of Jisung’s horrid memoirs.

Exactly two years back. It had been Changbin’s own insistence, when he’d spent weeks attempting to convince their, once, intact group of friends for a summer getaway to a family lodge that stayed put by lake reservoirs and hauntingly murky woods.

Jisung had never been one to associate the existence of such sceneries with his own desires. He’d been one to stick to computers, to machinery, to any device that transmitted and accepted electrical signals and spiked every crevice in his body with a certain kindness and loyalty that could never be rivaled.

Still, he’d eventually felt himself submit to his friends’ attempts at coercion. To finally, for once in his life, adopt a blitheful attitude and leave behind the one thing that remained upholding of an intact reassurance throughout the course of his life. The reassurance of assistance, of elimination of any possibility for human error.

He’d left it, and for once in his life, placed his trust in something, or rather, someone else. It had also been the first time he’d felt exactly what it was to be placed back into the mindset of a Han Jisung without the protection of the framework of technologies that had now adopted itself within the forefronts of his mind.

Han Jisung let himself feel vulnerable again, and just as quickly as he’d done so, within the flicker of a switch, the spark of a plug, the glint of a flame…he feels the newfound contentment crumble.

He’d gotten so impossibly close to finally weaving his way towards that of the social norm and acceptance, so close to finally abandoning the incredulous dependences he’d gotten too comfortable resorting to.

For, that very same night, two years ago, as a group of three found themselves the last remaining awake within the dusky crevices of nighttime. A group of three that sat in a smaller circle around a mound of ablaze sparks; blistering with courage, with sickeningly vivid memory procurement.

It’d been that same night when Chan had bid the final pair remaining goodbye in order to seemingly ‘call it a night’, which actually meant that he’d be sneaking into Felix’s bunk and snuggling him to sleep.

That very same night, Han Jisung feels his head lift out of the nook from which it’d been resting; within Changbin’s embrace to be as precise as was possible.

That same night, Jisung learns the consequences of allowing himself to be vulnerable again, when the distant flash of a baseball bat kicking over into view, and straight into their pit of fire, gnaws at the boy’s heart so deeply and restores the image of another memory so vividly, that he lets out a shriek of terror and horror that echoes against the ruffling tree leaves and hefty air of the night.

★★★★☆☆☆

The stories that often resounded and integrated themselves within spaces of chatter or forums of the frightening and alluring tastes, they were often the hardest to speak of. The hardest to depict in some ways, mainly because of the granularity and terseness of the events that fall over one another in patchy configurations – for a good story never ran a smooth course.

Those kinds of stories had almost always existed somewhere within the expanse of Felix’s bright mind; Chan had always described it as his very own palace of chronicled past lives, and he’d been gifted to recall their sequenced events.

It had never felt like a gift, to dream and dream and dream and catch glimpses into his startling mind’s eye, until he’d met Chan. Until Chan had stepped into his life, smiled up at him, apologizing for the state of his hair while it simultaneously fell over one eye and his hands attempted to settle their vivaciousness. He’d instantly known that he’d be done for.

Ever since Chan, Felix’s narrative dreams sat at the root of his head and traveled down lengths they never had before. They’d been analogous to tantalizing liquids that trailed down his throat with an unprecedented silkiness, flower heads that smelled sweet and carried even sweeter connotations, beams of sunshine peaking through tree leaves and glinted atop the surface of strikingly vivid eyes.

But even with Chan there, nothing could’ve prohibited their return whenever tragedy struck back into Felix’s revivifying life. A collection of tragedies that trailed after one another, as if a domino structure had been triggered following Jeongin’s mysterious death.

Felix’s haunting visions were back, and sleeping had become an arduous task that impeded his daily functioning, yet again. Part of him had always known of its extraordinary ability to manipulate the actions that emulated them within his real life. Part of him had always known, for why else would they feel so light against his chest when he’d begun spending an extraneous amount of time with an individual that splayed out all of his love just for him and looked through him more perfectly than any dream ever could.

The night of Jeongin’s death, the night’s mare had fallen shorter than it usually did, having carried out through a series of quick flashes. They’d just barely lingered, passing past his eyes too quickly for anything to be registered to the fullest extent. A computer screen flashing an error screen, a mound of red dog fur, and the undeniable image of a stuffed fox, torn through the neck.

It had spooked him so greatly, he remembers waking up in a hot flash and feeling Chan immediately rise up with him, a seething guilt melting into his chest, one that he hadn’t felt in so long. His eyes were clouded with teary anguish, his hair sticking to his forehead unpleasantly from the amount he’d been sweltering, and his breath felt scratchy against his throat. That hadn’t happened in so long. Two years, in fact, when Felix started sharing a bed with Chan.

He’d barely been able to catch a breath, and Chan knew better than to do anything but to hold and reassure him that he’d be safe in his arms. Amidst the panic, Felix had never truly gotten the chance to utter a single breath over the details of that dream, even as they vividly fronted themselves frequently, even outside the darkness of night. Even long after Jeongin’s death.

But then, just then, Felix falls asleep one night, certain that he’d be brave enough to face any lurid imagery even with Chan out for a late shift. Felix had been entirely wrong, for that night he’d dreamt of a snake. A singular, lengthy snake that slithered over murky, black water and drew its sharp teeth forward to snap at a collection of paper stars slowly drawing into the besmirched liquid trailing over every trace of the bleak surroundings.

6 stars. There had been 6, delicate, paper-thin stars, melting and tarnishing while a snake with bulging red eyes and smooth, black, and green scales struck them one by one. Tearing through them, seeping red liquid from each and every one.

Felix shouldn’t have fallen asleep that night.

If the one before it hadn’t done enough to keep the boy up at horrible hours, or enough to leave him paranoid at the click of any sound enveloping him amidst foggy silence, this one had.

Chan had already taken the initiative to help his father with funeral arrangements an entire 4 different times within the span of a few months.

When he’d gotten the call reporting Minho’s death by self-inflicted drowning, he’d watched as he went motionless, watched as his eyes fell soulless, watched as he’d been drowned and seeped of all the happiness, of all the brightness that he’d previously had the privilege of seeing grow within his heart.

He’d fallen silent. He’d picked up autopsy files, helped coordinate a meeting for floral arrangements, he’d caught a glimpse of Minho’s bluing corpse – and refrained from attempting to remember how similar he’d looked to Hyunjin – he’d done it all, and remained silent.

It had all become too obvious that an infestation had inhabited their group. It had been all too clear that it continued to grow and grow, and Felix spent every night for fear that it would strike Chan next. The unknowing, knowing fear.

It had barely crossed his mind, how far his dreams had followed him until they took over most of his days too. Until it become an arduous task to attempt to find time to feel anything but a deepening, darkening dread that fed on every possible second of joy that attempted to manifest itself within his surrounding bubble of insecurity.

It’s only weeks following Minho’s death that he finally gets around to talking to Jisung on the phone. It had been so long, so incredibly long since they’d properly talked, and hours seemed to pass just as quickly as he’d managed to answer the call to begin with. To hear the boy chuckling through his words, to hear his smile through the line, to hear that he’d been wondering if it were possible to meet up and talk and enjoy one another’s presence while everything else seemed to solely follow an impending doom.

So, and through great reluctance, after warding Chan off so he wouldn’t keep sacrificing his own working hours just to stick to Felix as if he’d been a child that needed constant monitoring, he calls Jisung.

He’d been looking back at the black screen of his phone minutes before even ringing the boy up. The grip over his phone so tight that he’d begun to see his palm turning blindingly white and blisteringly red, his skin begging for him to ease up. It’s only when the murky silence rings through the thick air so loudly that Felix jumps upon hearing a tick of the clock sat atop Chan’s diploma plaque. The clock continues to tick by the second, as it always had, and Felix is left to wonder, for a few brief moments, how his mind had managed to numb his surroundings so well that he hadn’t heard any of its ticks until a mere second ago.

Unfortunately, Felix does not receive the chance to mull over those thoughts for as long as he’d have preferred to, when his eyes draw back to the same black screen of his phone, only to watch as his eyes are indignantly stricken by the bright, piercing glow of 6 stars, on the very surface of its dusky gleam that somehow looks more disheveled and cracked than usual.

This brightness, this glow, they had not held the kindness Chan’s eyes used to. Nor the shine of a moonlight upon dusky water, nor the glimmer of crystals in the sun.

This glow, it had resembled that of unassuming headlights in the thick darkness of night, or the lustrous, cloudy glare of an inky, cobalt serpent.

Felix doesn’t hesitate after that, to call Jisung up. He wouldn’t make it through the night, otherwise, he thinks.

★★★★☆☆☆

Jisung can’t say that he finds it particularly debilitating to stare in front of a computer screen for days on end, moving game characters around aimlessly, interacting with them, ensuring they’d been readily fixed into their mechanics. His little game of voodoo, a resounding, applaudable achievement that he’d made all on his own.

No, it wasn’t debilitating at all, for how could one ever find the task of avidly communicating with a friend to be one of great onerousness? Instead, it had felt like a laborious incentive. One that kept you awake for hours too long but that ensured that you’d feel clouds of accretionary comfort sit atop your shoulders, somehow weighing you down and uplifting you at the same time.

It had also been the very notion that ensured he’d be well prepared for a moment such as this one, that arrived straight to his doorstep and politely rung its bell, awaiting his enthusiastic response.

A ‘ding’ from his phone, signaling a notification.

An important one at that, and Jisung’s short yelp and rapid scramble to unlock his small, yet compact device is enough to signify that he’d been expectant yet unsure for its arrival. That is, of the instance in which Felix would choose to contact him again.

Jisung’s delight cannot be truly conveyed through any means other than the brightness of his grin, the speed at which he’d shut his computer closed when he’d ordinarily take primary precautions, the relentless assurance that he’d arrive at Felix’s as soon as was possible (even taking care to send him short voice messages so he could feel less lonely in the meantime) – for Jisung had been acutely aware of the fact that Chan would not return home for hours, which meant that he’d have Felix to himself, which meant that today could truly open plentiful more opportunities for Jisung and ready execution of his plans.

Like a game with multiple pathways that branched into and away from one another, creating dynamics, deciding fates, shaping personalities, killing, and keeping. Jisung loved inhabiting such control. The control that continually procured triumph, that trailed down his throat like fluid fortune and snaked into his breath through its luring, spirited crusades.

It is this very control that becomes arbitrary when within the presence of a Lee Felix. This very control that Jisung would rather not inhabit, for if he did so, he wouldn’t have been able to feel the surprising thrill of letting the boy rest his head within the crook between his neck and his shoulder upon immediately embracing him at the door. Nor to hear that he’d missed being with him outside the confines of a digital landscape. Nor to feel the softening of his heartbeats somehow accompanied by its odd, inconsistent slumps and troughs. Complacency within a din.

‘You gave me way too many good traits, Sung,’ Felix had murmured, sometime between Jisung’s arrival and the night’s untimely fate.

Jisung’s plan had gone swimmingly, but again, the mysterious loosening of control had ensured he’d still feel a waver within his electronically coded blood flow – metaphorical, of course –, still feel a hitch of his breath while his game had been readily displayed in front of an unassuming Felix.

Had there been any reason for such waver? Felix had readily entrusted Jisung with the multifaceted behavior of his mind, one that felt too akin to his own. Two beings driven by an unnaturalness that came naturally to either of them. A gift that could feel like a curse under misuse. And Felix’s gift had been misused for much too long, Jisung thinks.

No longer will Jisung have to writhe in agony at the prospect of watching the boy he’d adored whimpering over phone lines, nor speaking so lowly of himself, no longer, no longer.

‘You’re just that perfect, actually,’ Jisung eventually responds, a frankness bolstered within his tone. Oh, how delightful it’d feel to finally be _honest_.

‘Shut up,’ Felix’s heart bleeds so clearly. He’s pure of soul, pure of rot, pure of error. Human error.

‘seriously, though, Sung, this game is _so_ cool.’ Felix had been careful, tip toeing around the devastation associated with the game, but Jisung appreciated his attempts at conveying a sort of pride and admiration, still. Pure of soul, pure of rot.

‘I’m really glad you think so,’ Jisung’s head feels heavy now, a crashing of salty waves prevalent within his head now. It’s only as he looks back at the laptop strewn over Felix’s lap that he realizes it’s because Minho had been at the corner of the screen. Wordlessly, he watches as his dispatched note wards the pixelated figure away. Felix doesn’t notice.

‘Lix.’ It’s time, Jisung realizes, whenever his senses are drained of the sickening, salty wrath of crashing waves and his head feels lighter again.

‘Hm?’

‘You said…I mean, you mentioned earlier that you’ve been getting bad dreams again.’

It’s a single phrase. A single phrase, but it grabs Felix’s attention within minute seconds, and his eyes are finally off of the monitor like Jisung had hoped to find.

Felix doesn’t utter a word, doesn’t nod, barely moves, but it’s enough affirmation to let Jisung resume, accompanied by a murkier whisper and a shifting of his weight so that he’d been as close to the boy as possible.

‘I can help you,’ Jisung rushes his words, and its clear that he’d thought them through as well as he possibly could, even if they still slurred and hasted upon arrival ‘I can…we can go, now, while he’s gone. We can help each other out–,’

‘While who’s gone? Chan?’ It seemed like Jisung had crossed a safe territory, way past what would’ve been deemed acceptable given their situations. He had to be swift, but he’d make it, he had to.

‘L-look, I know it sounds bad, but we need to – I know how it’s like, ok? I know how it’s like to feel fear within the vulnerability, to feel like something had been doomed upon you for all eternity, or how it feels for this murky, shadowy calamity to follow you everywhere you go. I know! But Chan doesn’t.’

‘What the hell are you suggesting? I’m not leaving Chan.’ It’d been crumbling. Crumbling at the measly, weak ridges that just barely held up honest hope. Hope that’d been rare for Jisung when he’d already known he hadn’t been in control.

Everything had been crumbling, and even as Jisung attempted to outstretch a promising grin Felix’s way, all he reads in the other’s eyes is the exact same emotion every one of his victims displayed.

A fear that knocked on your door, lulled you to sleep, and laid a chaste peck over your lids as they grew heavy.

That had sounded all too familiar for Jisung’s liking.

‘I-I’m just…look, I knew you’d have your doubts, but–,’

‘I think you need to leave.’

‘No! I mean, look, Felix reason with me here. I could give you so much more, you could be so much happier if you left him–,’

‘Jisung, get out!’

‘I can’t leave you here. You’ll understand, but only if you’ll trust me.’

He’s pushing now, pushing Jisung away while the latter watches helplessly while the love of his eternal life crumbles, breaks, rots.

‘I want you out, out, out!’ Felix had been close to reaching the knob now.

Is there anything he can say, anything he can do?

‘No, please, Lix,’

Time is running out, time is running thin, and the darkest hour approaches. Bedtime was soon.

‘Out!’

‘I killed them!’

An expected silence is all that follows. An expected silence that befriends fear, that somehow keeps the mind awake, even if it wants to be laid to rest.

He’s edging away now, edging away rather than edging any closer and Jisung wants to explain himself, he does, but he can’t. It wasn’t meant to happen like this.

‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

‘No, Lix,’ Jisung reasons, welcoming the sting of unshed tears that pool at his eyes ‘I killed our friends, I watched them die behind a computer screen. I killed our friends, because I had to.’

‘No, no, that can’t be true, that can’t–,’

He’s panicking now, Jisung sees it all. Sees how his eyes flitter to the clock, the phone on the couch, the laptop whose glaring screen remained alight, the stars in his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see. Jisung didn’t need to have control to sense any of that.

‘It is. It is, but I had my reasons, and you would understand, I know you would.’

‘I would…I would understand? In what world would you be able to justify–…I can’t do this, I can’t breathe,’ The boy’s eyes are sporadically unacquainted. Sporadically searching.

‘Lix,’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘Please, let me explain.’

‘No, what the fuck is wrong with you?!’

Jisung persists still, even if it means taking short steps and watching as, even that, makes Felix whimper, makes him take several more back.

‘A part of you has always known, right? That I was different.’

‘Stop talking!’ There’s a ringing in Felix’s ears now. And his vision clouds with a multitude of stars. And then, Chan. Chan, he thinks of him.

‘We’re the same. We’re not normal, we’re outcasted, treated like trash for having gifts.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare compare us. I’m _not_ like you.’ Even amidst his midnight scramble, even as his eyes finally land over the perfect, wooden tool. The poor boy doesn’t even have time to register that Jisung’s eyes had caught onto his whenever they’d laid over the weapon.

He’d already been doomed, when he sprints to reach for the weapon, brandishing it in front of himself in a defensive stance. Jisung can see his hands shake through their wavery grasps.

Most of all, Jisung sees red.

Jisung sees himself, much younger, much more deluded, much more vulnerable. Jisung sees himself, and he looks so small.

Jisung sees himself and he sees shards of glass. Jisung sees himself and he sees pools of red. Jisung sees himself and he sees his father’s nervous system thriving still, even after his body had completely shut down. Jisung sees the lifeless eyes of his father and quickly realizes that it’d still remained identical to the filter over his eyes for everyday that he’d lived with him.

‘No, Felix. No, please put the bat down, I won’t hurt you.’

Jisung’s first mistake is seeing.

Jisung’s second mistake is reaching for the bat.

‘Felix, no! Please, don’t, I won’t hurt you.’

There, they sit still for those few moments. Jisung’s hands incessantly grip back over the bat, and he registers how white Felix’s grip had turned, how shaky his hands remained, how much fear had been encapsulated in his wide, telling eyes.

‘Felix,’

‘Let go, or I’ll be forced to hurt you.’

‘Felix!’

Then, it happens. Jisung sees red, and it directly traverses from a digital, unassuming form into hot trails of crimson liquid that thread through blonde hair, that coagulate, that trail past his forehead, and over Jisung’s palm while said boy attempts to conceal the deep wound in a last attempt at correcting his wrongs.

‘Felix, no, no, please, I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t mean for this. Felix, please, wake up, wake up.’ Jisung’s words are staggered, meaningless, empty. For once, nothing but an utter encapsulation of putridity and anguish pools at his chest with the continuous outpour of blood.

It hurts more, he thinks, to have to shield his sobs, shield his screams into the material of his shirt. To have to contain the whole monstrosity that had consumed him whole when he’d merely been 9 years old and unassuming.

Jisung’s plans had completely crushed the real spirit of his genuine heart. Had completely trampled over any willing hope he could’ve held onto, had completely consumed him through digital takeover and slobbering coded artificialness over his real conscience.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

Jisung trails out, but he still sees.

Jisung gets back home, washes away the blood, but he still sees.


	6. ☆ stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied child abuse, mild descriptions of blood

They make a mockery of his horror. A mockery of his horror, a blight within his consciousness that predominates even its best parts. The parts that control, that are controlled, that feed, that are fed upon.

Han Jisung’s horror, which manifested in the form of electrical refraction of cluttered signals, caught up between the arms of his father, who lay motionless on their living room floor. Caught up between the shifting static overtaking the TV screen before him. There’d been no blood, no mess, no complications. Han jisung had been an innocent kid.

An innocent kid huffing in shaky sobs, an innocent kid who’d meant for better, who’d wished for the day to arrive when someone would drive him out of the inhumane pit he’d been forced into along with a poor excuse for a parent.

Han Jisung had been 11 years old. Han Jisung had never controlled electronic pathways with his mind, until then.

Until then, and until he’d finally learned to rely on something that’d never betray him.

And still, they make a mockery out of his horror.

Chan, whose eyes glint in the dark, even without the prowling presence of the fiery pit they’re withstanding the brunt of. Changbin, whose eyes read the sort of guilt-mongering that Jisung can’t stand the very sight of.

Even amongst his own considerations of their real horrors, they do mock his, and with it they leave behind a trail of putrid muck that oozes over their eyes, their mouths, their ears. A dangerous muck that seethes their sensitive skin, that burns past layers of pretend, pity, impurity.

‘What do you know.’ Jisung visibly states. No, for they believe they’ve caught him within a simplistic game of cat and mouse, that they’d reduced him to a microscopic impudence. Jisung had never allowed himself to be caught between traps, but the trap they’ve laid out for him glints a mysteriously intriguing red that entices him to fall under its sharp hold.

Ever since Felix had passed it’d felt different. Ever since he’d disrupted the route of his precisely tuned plans, ever since he’d willed himself to believe that Felix could love someone like him.

Jisung’s horrors do not matter, he begins to believe. Jisung’s horrors never mattered.

Jisung believes. While his eyes stick over two towering figures in a bleak, nearly abandoned settlement. Jisung believes his time is finally up.

★★★★★☆☆

Jisung had a fascination for the stars.

Ever since he’d learned how to hold a storybook between his hands and point over its printed text, a stutter falling over his murmuring, a bleak imagining that he’d been under the support of a mother he’d never gotten the chance to feel the warmth of.

Stutter, stutter, stutter. The word had taunted him from the very beginnings of his first, home-schooled teachings. His father had never been the most efficient teacher, nor the most efficient father, nor the most efficient, functioning human.

No, he hadn’t ever even treaded over those murky waters through a sliver of a ripple.

It’d helped to further Jisung’s imaginations for what the world could look like for him, to send him under dreamlands that existed within his own corporal world. To jump over clouds, to giggle into the misty air and feel the sudden weight of nothing leave him floating within the expansive milky way.

Where he could visit all of Saturn’s moons, perch himself over her rings, and gaze at the burning celestial bodies etched into the space-line.

His eyes burned with it, they split into its fragmented shine and exerted such a bright force that one would begin to wonder how bad the physical reality he’d lived by could be, if he’d preferred to remain within his dotted universe.

Han Jisung had looked at the world around him through a star-speckled lens, he’d draw away the blur in his eyes from trickling tears and patchy sobs in favor of seeing the stars instead. He’d run ink over his skin in hopes of blacking out the bruises and cuts that often littered his soft skin, and gaze back at his work with prideful ignorance.

For that time, the stars had been the bridgeway subtended between reality and imagination.

For now, a pixelated dissonance sat over his eyes so prevalently that he cannot recall how it could’ve possibly ever been different.

It started sometime following his 9th birthday. A day he only remembers from the messy tables he’d drawn up every month as his personal calendar. September’s table was a bright, shiny blue, and its dates were each encircled with a planet, save for his birthday. September 14th was encircled with a golden star, surrounded by its vociferous glow.

He’d been sat just in front of a small TV screen. A boxy, outdated model that wouldn’t be replaced for as long as his father made no attempt at doing so. There’s a distinct memory of the screen glaring red before his father manages to stride into the room with the most blatant show of a disgustingly putrid presence than Jisung thought could be fathomable.

Its instantaneously clear what Jisung is to do. He leaves the remote controller that’d been settled over his lap onto his father’s armchair, where an indent had been formed by him, and attempts to stroll back upstairs with his eyes drawn to his shuffling feet. Until, of course, he’s stopped by the man’s own grimy hand wrapping over his sensitive skin, a burning red having already settled over its surface from the grip alone.

‘Where do you think you’re going? What if I need something, huh?’

He can’t hear him; he realizes with a start. He can’t hear him at all.

Where a gruff voice would’ve usually resided, lays a heavy filter that rumbles Jisung’s mind so brazenly that he’d almost been knocked off his feet. A filter that sounds like static, muddled, and mobile.

Still, despite his evident falter, his father releases his grip when Jisung nods animatedly, sensing the man’s words without even having to fully hear them. Then he’s back to sitting on the floor, arms crossed, a hand consciously picking at the edges of a homemade band aid that sits over one of his tattered knees. Then, he begins to imagine.

But it’d been so different from every other time, you see, it’d struck him so beguilingly at first that he almost audibly gasps. There’s a filter over his eyes, now, and a muffled sound that runs through each of his ears incredibly clearly, as if he’d pulled on a pair of earphones. A filter that generates gradually, displaying a pixelated display of the galaxy in all of its splendid glory. A galaxy curated by his own daydreams, no doubt, as Jisung doesn’t quite believe that the one they’d lived in held nearly as much pungent pinks, strident splices of gem-stars, and warm cloud bridges.

His eyes had never burned so brightly. He’d become so entrapped within his own universe that he doesn’t register when his father attempts to ask him to retrieve something for him from the kitchen. It doesn’t help his case that his smile stretches so wide or that his eyes squint at the sides, because he’s eventually smacked back into reality when his father actually smacks him upside the head with so much veracity that he’s sent toppling to the side, along with all of the pinks, the splices, the bridges.

Still, he can’t hear him. He feels his eyes readjust, but still his father’s words come out like muck that trails out of mouth in static-form. He doesn’t sound humane, he doesn’t sound normal, and Jisung begins to wonder if he’d still been dreaming.

‘I can’t hear you!’ Jisung finds himself helplessly crying out, a flail of his arms to distance himself from the looming shadow of his father’s height barely helping his case.

Then, it happens. Jisung sees red, a red that overtakes his vision like a glitch out of place, like a mistake within the coding. Within the split second he misses when his father’s arm is wound around a bat that had built various dents over the years. Within another split second, Jisung sees stars.

And then the stars are tattered in red, and he can’t help but hope for an escape that felt improbable despite his incessant praying.

The stars are drowned so far in red when his eyes screw shut so tightly he’s scared he’ll go blind.

And then there’s nothing. Not a strike over his crouched figure, not a sting on his back, not even red.

When he builds enough strength to look through the spaces between his fingers that’d been shielding his all-seeing eyes, he sees his father, draped over the floor like a ragdoll and the very beginnings of a spark trailing over the TV, that’d displayed nothing but red, seeping pixels.

With his fear, goes away his galaxy. With his ignorance, goes away his stars.


	7. ★ dreamscape

Somewhere beyond the horizons separating a great horror from the unfamiliarity of admittance, there’s a line of stars. Jisung blinks, he’s unsure how he’s landed here, after feeling his breath overridden by asphyxiating smoke, engulfed by the greatest of horrors, the ghosts of all of his victims hovering over his shoulder while they watched him fall, eyes half cast in smooth flames, the other half overridden by burning waters.

And then, the view blinks into clearer view. The water forms a ripple that turns its surface cloudy, pink, weighted under his feet, the stars float up, far past where he’s able to extend his sights, forming shimmering, stepping stones.

Han Jisung blinks again, it hasn’t left. He closes his eyes, screwing them shut so tightly it hurts to think, and still, when he opens them. Everything lays still before him.

His heart drums with every movement he makes, traveling with his slow steps in its patchy, irrational patterns. He blows his own breeze around him, imagining it expanding until it forms its own bubble-like barrier, surrounding him as he steps onto the first star, heaving out more courage for the next, the next, and the next.

With each stepping star, he watches the sky’s colors shift. His galaxy had been ridden with an immaculately binding black when he’d been on ground level, and then purples and blues pool into view, fizzing from either side, ready to join within the central domain he’s standing within. He’s so small, so weak in comparison to its stronger, bigger hold.

Oranges and reds next, fusing seamlessly within the cloudy texture they coagulate into.

Yellows, greens, and pinks. Jisung almost finds himself slipping off of his weighty stars, even as they grow bigger with each step up. The last one stands above him.

He sighs. His bubble ruptures, and he’s left deciding his own fate before it could be laid out in front of him. The next stepping stone could hold his greatest paradise, his grandest dreamscape.

Still, his eyes blur out of focus, and his stronger willpower dissolves, pooling at his feet, and sliding off his beloved stars, dropping to the ground as codes. Nothing but coded messages, meaningless, heartless, and inhumane in their nature.

Just as he’d been, just as he’d been destined to be.

Jisung looks up one last time. No, if a paradise truly stands before him, he will not subject himself to its beautiful tenacity. He will not, for as long as his heart remains ridden with a configuration even he couldn’t decode.

He drops. Han Jisung shuffles until his feet no longer feel the support of a sleek, glowing surface. Until he watches the sky’s colors travel further away, disappearing from view, his stars glowering away from their shine the more he descends down.

There’s nothing left now. Nothing left, until he is to feel the calamity of one final crash. But he doesn’t. His eyes widen, scanning his surroundings before his limbs make the first motion to dwell over his reserve.

‘Why aren’t I gone, yet?’

‘Good question.’

Jisung gasps, picking himself up faster than he could’ve ever hoped to have heard that voice again. His eyes frantically look from his rights, to his lefts, everywhere they possibly could, but its all black. His feet pad over nothing, his eyes bore into nothing, and his hands feel nothing, because he’s been dropped into a doused black.

A loading screen. Or perhaps a crashing system. An error, or a delay.

Jisung had placed Seungmin here, when he’d been sunk too far within his own head to wake up from that horrid nightmare.

Jisung had placed Minho here, when he’d forced all of his sensations to dull with him, for that single, crisp vision to echo within the walls of his own head.

Jisung had placed Hyunjin here, when his breath fanned blue, and his throat clogged down a mound of cotton and scratchy paper.

Jisung had placed Jeongin here, when his red burned dusk, when his heart bled black, and his soul splattered against a forged note.

But Jisung hadn’t placed Felix here. Jisung hadn’t meant to burn Felix’s nightmares into his reality or lack-there-of. Jisung hadn’t meant to leave him barren, cold, unmoving, when Chan came home to find him, when his shrieks struck the air with dismayed terror.

‘Who’s…who was that? Who’s here?’

‘No one but yourself. Although I presume being within your own presence outweighs all horror.’

_Seungmin._

Jisung’s hands wring through his hair, his eyes shut, but somehow he can’t rid them of the dilapidated, red codes that take over any possibility for sight of his stars.

‘Please, no more, no more, I want out.’

‘But we didn’t.’

_Hyunjin._

Jisung can’t take it. The codes do more than just obstruct his thoughts, they infiltrate every single sense, amplifying them by tenfold. Every lingering touch he leaves makes his skin crawl with their sharp amalgamation. His eardrums pound with the teeter of putrid, crackling buzzes. His heartbeat draws out of his own focus, he isn’t sure if it’s still there.

‘Let me go! Please, just let me go!’

‘Not that easily. You don’t deserve that luxury.’

Felix.

That was Felix.

Jisung blinks, he frantically looks around himself, heaving himself from one direction to the other, but it doesn’t stop. The crawling, the buzzing, the pounding, they all persist, until they finally rise up into such a screeching rise that for one second it all.

Stops.

And then his eyes fly open again, tufts of heavy breathing shaking him to his very core. But as he shifts his sights down, he can’t see his hands shaking, or his legs wobbling, nothing of the sort. Because all he sees is black. Nothingness and black, like he’d been consumed through its hinges.

He tries speaking, but nothing sounds out.

Tries moving, but nothing shifts.

He tries, persisting, persisting until the end but nothing, nothing happens.

And then he wakes up.

..

..

**_‘Hey, Ji! Voicemail calls never give you enough time when it’s urgent, but I’ll try to get this across as quickly as possible._ **

**_I truly hope you’ve been doing well these days, I heard from one of your caregivers that you haven’t been talking to, really, anyone, and I can only hope that this call will even get to you, but I really hope you listen well if it does._ **

**_I know it’s been tough; I know it’s been hard; I really do. I – we just started our unit on psychiatry and – ok, I realize it’s stupid to utilize my minimal amount of teachings here but…_ **

**_We all want to hear more from you. It doesn’t have to be big, it doesn’t at all, maybe just a quick update, like, hey! I just ate this really rad apple pie today. That would be more than enough!_ **

**_I’m running out of time but please consider it, Sung, please._ **

**_I love you! And I’m not just speaking as Jeongin, I’m speaking for all 7 of us. I love you so much, and I’m so proud of your progress._ **

**_Bye for now!’_ **

**_★★★★★★★★_ **


End file.
